Can a relationship based on incredibly passionate and raw sexual fulfillment disguise itself as true love? Or is true love just a name given to mammoth sexual fulfillment?
Such was the question faced by Tom Clifden, a clever street hustler who found himself sexually glued to Hank Carter, a struggling would-be actor in New York City. Their physical and sexual appetites for each other knew no boundaries. Night after night after night they revelled in sexual episodes of Olympic proportion.
But the question came up much later. Tom was 53 years old, and by then, Tom (without Hank) had used his good looks and street smarts to good advantage. He owned a string of bars across the country and was comfortably settled in Key West.
His quietude ended abruptly when a letter arrived from Eunice, a woman who 25 years earlier was Hank's first love-and the woman whom Hank had abandoned for Tom's unbelievable sexual powers and pleasures.
"Hank is dead". The letter was short and to the point. More letters follow and more are exchanged. The correspondence evolves into a steamy, explicit tale about Hank's true character and identity -- a Hank that for so many long years Tom had not even known.